Pinfall
by subseeker
Summary: Special circumstances may reveal unexpected allies. When Phil finds out about John and Randy being a couple Stephen manages to get a glimpse behind the snarky man's well built defences... A friendship grows... and suddenly Stephen's world turns upside down as he finds himself in love with him. Parallel story to What you see is what you get. This is CM Punk / Sheamus. Slash ahead!
1. Introduction

Okay, I did that only once before: this is NOT Centon.

Well, there will be mentions of John and Randy, but this one is de facto about Punk and Sheamus.

It's more or less a parallel story to What you see but no first person view.

And I'm very curious about your feedback. Really. So please tell me if I did good.

Have fun ;-)

* * *

About 2 years and 8 months ago

"What is your fucking problem, Farrelly?!" Phil snapped, slapping the big white hand away which had pushed him back into the locker room.

Stephen slammed the door shut and leaned back against it, crossing his arms over his chest. Warily he gazed at the other man who in turn glared at him. John had just told him that Phil had dropped into his locker while Randy was there, too. Brooks was a good observer, so leave it to him to smell the rat and he obviously had since he congratulated them to finally being a couple. When Stephen came by not much later Randy was very still and John slightly confused but also a bit relieved that there was someone else now who knew, who was okay with it. And for Stephen's taste he was a bit too naïve about the whole thing.

"I know tha yer have just been at John's locker to _congratulate_ them and I just want to put something straight, Punk," he began slowly. "If yer tell anyone about it, I'll make yer regret it."

Phil's brows rose to his hairline and the glare morphed to a quizzical expression as he crossed his arms over his chest, too, and looked Stephen over.

"Now, now, the big white oaf is threatening me," Phil replied then, his voice lacking of the usual sneer and sarcasm. "Look, I know the three of you are best buddies and I understand that you're all watch-dog about them now but, you know, I actually meant what I said."

Cocking his head Stephen kept looking at him, searching for a sign that it wasn't the truth but there was none. When there was no other reaction from him Phil shrugged his shoulders as he turned away and walked over to a bench where he sat down heavily, starting to untie his boots.

"Why suddenly so kind, Punk?"

Phil halted for a moment, shaking his head slightly. A quiet chuckle. And then he continued his task, kicking the first boot off while giving Stephen a quick sideway glance. An arched eyebrow followed.

"I've always been a kind person. Most people just don't bother to find out about it," he said in a tone equally arch, making Stephen snort. "Okay, back to topic. First of all, I don't have a problem with homosexuality. Live and love the way you like as long as no one gets harmed. And really, they have acted like an old married couple for years now and only a blind wouldn't have seen the spark between them. I think it's hard enough to find the one person you want to spend the rest of your life with, so I'm happy for them. When I went there to congratulate them I was serious. I know it doesn't look like I do like John and Randy, but I in fact _do_. So calm down, big man."

While the younger man spoke his voice took on a soft note and for a fleeting moment Stephen noticed a surprising discovery wave at him. There was a different Punk from the one he'd put up with all the years and that Punk was actually… amiable. The second boot was kicked off and a towel was retrieved from a bag, along with shower gel and… Phil froze.

"What?" Phil asked after a moment, meeting the other man's stare.

Stephen puffed a tiny laughter, pushed away from the door and took a few steps closer to him where he squatted down to be on eyelevel.

"You know why people don't bother to find out who yer are, Punk?" he asked, his voice becoming deep and calm. "Because yer keep biting them away. Maybe yer should let someone in every once in a while."

"Maybe. But most people aren't worth the effort," Phil sighed wearily. "I have a name, by the way. And I would be grateful if you could leave now, I need a shower."

Nodding Stephen straightened up, making his way to the door and he was about to get out of the room as he stopped in the doorway, turning back to Phil. He was still a little confused about Phil's so un-punkish behavior. It was a bit perturbing even, yet… he could get used to it. Exhaling softly Phil got up from the bench, glancing at him with questioning eyes.

"Promise, I'm not gonna blow the whistle on them," the smaller man assured quietly. "I know what the stakes are. Got it?"

"Yeah, got it," Stephen replied, the deep voice echoing throughout the room. "Thanks, Phil."

The last thing Stephen saw was a soft nod and small but evident upturn of lips before the door clicked shut.

* * *

About 1 year and 7 months ago

Pulling the hood down over his forehead he let his iPod slip into the pocket of his jeans. The music was blasting from his in-ears and distracted him from the dull burning pain in his sore shoulder. Bloody Lesnar, couldn't bear that he had to lose and took it out on him.

The job was done, it was late and unlike his co-workers Phil wasn't up for a party after the show, because he was damn tired and the company there would most likely not be the one he preferred. Throwing the bag over his shoulder he left the locker and made his way along dimmed corridors to the parking lot.

And then suddenly there was a bruising grip on his shoulders from behind and he was practically thrown against the wall. His head collided hard with the wall and for a brief moment his world blacked out but the second he came around again he wished he would just have stayed in that blackness. His head exploded in roaring pain and as did his shoulder as his arms were yanked up. A large hand closed around his wrists in a painful grip, holding them pinned against the wall above his head and just as he wanted to open his eyes to see who the attacker was, a blow to his strained and sore shoulder made him his eyes screw shut as a wave of white hot pain rolled through him, ripping a cry of pain from his throat.

Phil would have fallen to the ground if it hadn't been for the hand which still held his wrists in a vice-grip. He took a deep and shuddering breath, a second, trying to breathe the pain away. The headphones were ripped from his ears.

"Thought you'd get away just like that, you freak?" a voice growled close to him and that voice made his eyes snap open and through his fuzzy vision he found Lesnar there.

Much too close. The weird eyes were wide, the usually pale face reddened in anger and his agitated breathing sent warm and wet air fanning over Phil's face. Disgusted he wanted to turn his face away, but Lesnar's free hand immediately grabbed his chin, forcing his head back around.

"The… only freak here is you… fucking… Neanderthal…" he wanted to spit but it wasn't by far as snarky as it was supposed to be, since he could barely move his jaw.

The hand on his face left, only to dig into his shoulder and he bit back another cry of pain.

"If you want to… beat me up then go ahead… don't want to make an evening… of it…" he panted with a shaky smirk on his lips.

Phil was aware that it would be a good idea not to provoke the gorilla but he also knew that he wouldn't get away just like that, no matter if he kept his mouth shut or not. So he could as well bite back. And he had to pay the price immediately. The hand that was holding him up let go and his arms dropped to his sides, drawing a groan from him and the very second he began to slide down the wall Lesnar's fist landed a hard blow to his face. His knees buckled and within the blink of an eye he dropped to the ground face down, the fire in his face merging neatly into the roaring his head and the white hot pain in his shoulder. He felt a wetness on his face and he couldn't tell if it was tears or blood. There was a buzzing in his ears, getting louder with every heartbeat and he hoped dearly it was the messenger of an unconsciousness. Through the buzzing he heard a spat _freak_ and despite the pain he managed to roll onto his side, sneering up to the seething man.

"Compensating the lack of brain with… with muscles, are we?" Phil gritted out, shoving a snigger right after.

The kick to his stomach knocked the breath out of him and gasping he curled up to a ball, wrapping his arms protectively around it. But not for long. Two hands grabbed him, hurling him up and the next blow to his face sent him to the ground again. The wetness on his face became more and this time it was definitely blood. He could taste it… smell it. A low and breathless groan passed his lips. Pain. His head, his shoulder… everything. _Pain_. And the unconsciousness he begged for… stayed away. From the corner of his eye he saw Lesnar reach out for him again, taking hold on the collar of his sweater and he was yanked up. Faintly smiling he closed his eyes, waiting for the next blow.

It never came.

He felt a hard tug at his sweater and suddenly the hand was gone and while he slumped down he heard a thud, a groan, definitely Lesnar's, and shuffling steps which became very quick steps, veering away from him. Moaning softly Phil blinked and saw black sneakers and blue jeans. He really wanted to lift his head or at least turn his face a little to see who it was, but movement caused even more pain and he had enough of it already. The blue jeans remained still for another few seconds before its owner approached him, kneeling down beside him.

A gentle hand on his back and a soft voice, asking: "Phil? Yer with me?"

Oh, hey, he knew that accent…

"Huh, the big white…. knight… coming to rescue the… damsel in distress," Phil chuckled but since it was causing him even more pain he stopped immediately. "How… corny…"

"Tha man can be beaten to a pulp but his big mouth keeps biting," Stephen huffed, shaking his head and when Phil tried to sit up he cautiously helped him, wincing compassionately at every moan and groan. And then he began to gingerly prod Phil's face, murmuring: "Busted lip, busted eyebrow, bleeding nose… The gorilla did a nice job on yer pretty face."

Leaning back against the wall Phil wrapped an arm around his belly and closed his eyes, exhaling: "Not only there."

Another moan. Speaking hurt and maybe he should really keep his mouth shut for once. A soft dabbing on his cheeks told him that Stephen was trying to free his face from the blood and he wanted to laugh at the ridiculously tender touch as the other man held his head steady. The funny thing was that he almost missed it when the hand vanished.

"Your belly?"

"The bastard kicked me…"

Stephen hummed and took hold of Phil's arm to lift it away but the other man flinched slightly and green eyes snapped open, gazing at him warily.

"I'm not gonna hurt yer, okay?" Stephen calmed him, not letting go of the arm. "Trust me."

Phil's eyes roamed the man kneeling in front of him. As usually white as a sheet but for a soft tinge of pink of his cheeks and bloodstains on his hand, eyes slightly narrowed in worry… blue. Blue eyes. He could have sworn they were green? The red hair was falling unruly, looking a tad too fluffy for a man of his size.

"You're looking very fluffy, you know?" he muttered then, playing for time… not sure if he should give in or not.

Was there a small smile around the Irish man's lips?

"Well, yer are looking very dented," Stephen replied then and yes, it was a smile.

A nice smile. A warm smile. One that reached the worried eyes. All of it, that smile, the whole Stephen as he was sitting right there… it made him look… safe. Maybe for once he could risk it. And with a sigh Phil let his arm slide to his legs, giving a silent okay. His sweater was lifted gingerly and the soft prodding from his face continued on his aching belly. A surprisingly gentle touch for such a big man with such big paws.

"There'll be bruises but yer are gonna survive it," Stephen murmured and pulled the sweater back down. "Feeling a bit better?"

Phil puffed a small chuckle.

"I'm feeling like a ball of pain."

"We should talk to Vince," Stephen suggested but Phil shook his head slightly no.

"What for? Even if he kicks Lesnar out, the gorilla will be back sooner or later. He's a crowd puller."

Resuming his dabbing the blood from Phil's face he replied quietly and heavy with sincerity: "Don't think so. Lesnar is shit compared to yer and Vince knows tha."

Swallowing hard Phil could only stare at him. His heart tripped. Now, over the past months they had become… well, friends wouldn't have been fitting, but Stephen had definitely become one of the few guys of the roster he didn't mind to have around. On some days he even enjoyed the Irish man's company. Not that he would have admitted it. Yet he wouldn't have expected words like these.

"Well, you definitely know how to make a beaten man feel better," he groaned as he shifted a tad to get some pressure off his sore shoulder.

That got him a smile and not for the first time he thought that the Irish man's smile was kind of addictive and so he found himself smiling, too. A little at least since the cut in his lip stung.

"Now, how about we try to get yer back on yer feet?"

At a hesitant nod from the smaller man Stephen threw both their bags over one shoulder, took Phil's good arm and hooked it around his neck before he slipped an arm cautiously around his upper body to help him get up. Although Phil tried his best to stifle any sounds of discomfort, he failed miserably and despite his protest Stephen more or less carried him back into the building to the next trainer.

Three hours later it was a knock on the door of his hotel room that shook Stephen out of his thoughts which were revolving around what had happened. Hopping from the bed he walked over, wondering who this could be and the door revealed… Phil, standing there with his bag in hands and a sheepish expression spread on his face. The busted lip was visibly swollen, as was his eye and around the butterfly stitches on his brow was dried blood. He looked like a beaten cat.

Stepping aside he waved the smaller man in and Phil slipped into the room immediately, walking over to the armchair. The bag dropped to the floor, disturbing the quietness with a soft thud, followed by the quiet sound of a closing door.

"Sorry if I woke you," he apologized quietly as he turned around.

"Yer didn't," Stephen replied, still a bit confused about the late night visit. "Yer okay?"

Rubbing his hands he laughed nervously, averted his eyes and admitted: "Maybe… not… I don't know… uhm… I thought that I… maybe I could stay here tonight? You won't notice me and I don't think I can sleep, so the armchair is perfectly fine and…"

Stepping up to the rambling man he called his name twice before Phil eventually halted mid-sentence.

"No, Phil," Stephen said then and green eyes snapped up to his, not really surprised but disappointed in a way and the moment he wanted to reach for his bag a big hand closed around his good shoulder, stopping him. "I can't let yer stay on the armchair the whole night. The bed's big enough for two. But I warn yer, if yer snore like a walrus I'm gonna kick yer butt."

"As I said, big man, I don't think I'll sleep tonight," Phil murmured as he watched the Irish man crawl back under the sheets. "Is it okay if I read a little?"

"Yeah, 's fine."

Producing a few comics from his bag he switched the bedside lamp on and the big light out and crawled into the bed. Under normal circumstances he would never have considered knocking on Stephen's door or even sleep in the same bed with him… or any other man. But this weren't the normal circumstances and instead of feeling weird for being here he felt… calm. It was the most fitting word. Calm. Not that he had been scared being alone in his room but there had been a certain unease lingering deep within him and the idea of having Stephen's company had been inviting so… one night would do no harm, would it? Sighing softly he focused on the comic in his hand, preparing for a long night...

Turning onto his side with his back to Phil Stephen gazed at the window… or rather at the image it mirrored. It was showing Phil, reading, not noticing being watched. He'd always known the man as a tough guy and so it was disconcerting to see him like that. The whole thing had left him obviously more shaken than he would have admitted, yet… with being here Phil _had_ admitted it in a way. This was an entirely new side of him. The more he came to know this man, the more he… liked him.

Not even an hour later a snore ripped through the quietness of the room and when Stephen rolled onto his other side to stick to his promise and kick his bed neighbor, he smiled instead at the sight of a peacefully sleeping Phil. He took the comic from his hands, reached over him to switch the light out and whispered to him to scoot down a bit. Phil never woke up but followed the urging voice. The blanket was pulled up to his shoulders and a sigh was his answer.

Lying back down Stephen waited for the sleep to return to him and for once it was a constant snoring that lulled him back into the land of dreams.

* * *

Present

His voice was a whisper as he asked: "Randy… what did yer do?"

He heard a tiny sound through the line and when Randy spoke again the words they were wrapped in a sob.

"I… I think I… slept with Sam…"

A shocked gasp slipped past Stephen's lips. And then there was utter silence because the information hit him like a sledgehammer.

"_What the fuck?_ Haven't you pulled _enough_ bullshit on him already,_ you goddamn bastard_?" he growled suddenly. The growl became an angry groan and then there was a brief catch in his enraged breathing before he added with a slight tinge of confusion: "Wait, what do you mean, you _think_ you slept with her? Why were you with her at all?"

"After John left I didn't want to be alone and… I wanted to see Alanna but she's with her grandparents and Sam offered me to stay in the guestroom," Randy whispered then. "And yesterday I got drunk and… this morning I found a hickey on my neck but I can't remember what happened after I started drinking… Stephen, I need to know that you're gonna be there for him when… I have to go."

"Christ, _Randy_…" he whispered in reply. "Okay. Listen, I'm gonna call Phil and I want yer to go to him… if John sends yer away. Yer hear me? I want to be sure tha yer are not gonna do anything stupid. _Promise_ _me_ tha yer go to him."

The call ended and his hand dropped to his side, fingers closing tight around the small device while he pressed the heel of his free hand against his forehead. This was so goddamn bad…

"Jesus… _Jesus…_" Stephen breathed horrified.

As if the past days hadn't been worse enough, no, now… _that_. He took a quick glance around, looking out for John but he was still alone.

_Fuck…_

Here he was, witnessing as a relationship that was meant forever broke apart and the pieces were falling so fast that he couldn't put them back quick enough to stop it. He couldn't let that happen, _no way_, but he had no idea _what to do_.

Taking a deep, collecting breath he lifted the cell, scrolling through his contacts until he found the one he was looking for. The one he could ask for help. His thumb hovered over the screen for a second, before he hit the dial-button.

Every single beep through the line made the few moments of waiting seem like an eternity and when the call was answered it wasn't quite relief he felt, but it certainly felt like a part of the weight had just been lifted from his heart.

"Hey, big white man," greeted a good-humored voice through the line.

"_Phil_…" he exhaled shuddering.

"Good god, you okay?" Phil asked, the tone becoming worried in an instant.

Stephen shook his head no, muttering a _shit_, before he replied hushed: "It's about John and Randy. They had a nasty fight and…" He stopped, deciding to keep further details to himself for the moment. "I need yer help, Phil. Can Randy stay at yer place for a while?"

Brief silence.

Then: "Sure, but what the hell happened?!"

A mirthless laughter spilled from Stephen's lips.

"I can't tell yer… now. Listen, Randy will drop in later. Take care of him." He swallowed hard against a lump in his throat at the thought of what would happen in the near future. "Thank yer, Phil."

Silently he thanked what higher spirit there was for Phil, because he was an ally. And a friend.

"Anytime," Phil said and the warmth in his voice washed soothingly over Stephen. "Promise you call me later. I want to be sure you're okay."

Stephen whispered a _yeah_. The call ended. The weight on his shoulders was back and his heart plummeted to his belly as he moved to find John…


	2. Steps

Here we go, part 2 and I want to thank all those who dared to take a look and even left a review!

Hope you'll like this one, too!

* * *

About 1 year and 6 months ago

Slouching on his chair Phil sipped on his Pepsi, lost in a comic. His table was wonderfully empty and he was glad no one wanted to be in his company for dinner. The cafeteria was filled with the usual business. His well-deserved and peaceful break was interrupted though as a very white hand placed a plate right in front of his nose. Grumbling he looked up, his eyes travelling along a white arm up to an equally white and grinning face.

"What's that?" he growled.

The grin widened annoyingly as Stephen replied: "A tuna sandwich."

Phil huffed and focused back on his comic, trying hard to ignore the fact that his stomach was eating itself up because he was so fucking hungry.

"Wonderful, the Great White killed Flipper," he sighed instead.

The plate was pushed a bit more in his direction and Stephen sat down on the edge of the table. Gazing back up to the Irish man Phil pulled up an irritated expression. The white man just wouldn't stop trying to be friends with him. Well, he had to admit, it could have been worse. If it was Lesnar for example.

"Yer are a jerk, Brooks," Stephen snapped half-heartedly. "This is fish, yer eat fish. Want it or not?"

Gazing warily at the sandwich, Phil tilted his head and muttered: "How can I know it isn't poisoned?"

A chuckle. Stephen was shaking his head in amusement and once more Phil wondered how one person could be so goddamn good-humored.

"Yer have serious trust issues, Brooks."

Tilting his head to the other side, he frowned at Stephen and replied: "Yeah, well, I've had enough reasons in my life to develop trust issues."

And then the other man said something that left him speechless for several seconds and it wasn't only his words but the way he said them. Soft, serious. Honest.

"You can trust _me_."

Silent staring, green to blue, guarded to open. He swallowed and blinked several times before he found his voice again.

"Funny, that's exactly what people told me before they did something to proof otherwise," he rasped and coughed lightly to clear his throat. It wasn't often that someone left him speechless and because he didn't want to give him the satisfaction about it he added with a certain amount of indifference: "Don't take it personally. I wouldn't even trust John Mister-boy scout-himself Cena."

Stephen heaved a heavy sigh as he slipped from the table.

"Look, I heard yer bitch about no food for yer and thought yer could be hungry. And since I got the last tuna sandwich I wanted to be nice and give it to yer," Stephen muttered, the good mood somewhat dimmed as he turned around to leave. "Do whatever yer want, Brooks."

Thoughtfully Phil watched the other man's retreat, feeling a small pang of guilt for being so mean and that small pang made him frown deeply, because it was so unlike him to feel guilty for wanting to have some peace and quiet.

But maybe it was only because this was Stephen, not someone else. The man had saved his ass from being beaten to a bloody pulp only a months ago, had allowed him to sleep in his bed that night, wiping the embarrassment he'd felt for asking him to away just by acting as if it was the most normal thing in this world.

His eyes followed the Irish man, watched him get himself another sandwich and walk over to a lonely table, managing to look sulking just by sitting the way he sat there. His back to Phil, the shoulders stiff.

In an attempt to shake the guilt off he shifted on his chair, lifting the comic up so he didn't have to see the sandwich and the pouting Stephen. It worked for exactly ten seconds until his hands dropped to his legs, a defeated sigh escaping his throat.

Tilting his head back, closing his eyes he muttered: "Irish bastard..."

Why not? Why shouldn't he go over there, sit down and eat the friggin' sandwich? He owed him for chasing Lesnar away, so he could as well be nice to him for once. It wasn't like he had to be best friends with him, right?

Sighing he got up, grabbing the plate and made his way over to Stephen, sitting down on the opposite chair in a most reproachful way.

"Not one single word, Farrelly," he growled, but it lacked of intensity as he focused back on his comic, eating the sandwich.

From the corner of his eyes he caught a soft smile on the other man's face who looked down on his own plate and hidden behind his comic, Phil allowed a tiny smile of his own to tug at his lips…

About 9 months ago

It had been a great night and an amazing show, leaving everyone in party mood and so it was half of the locker room who went out after the show for some more fun. Including Stephen.

He had been running through the building in an attempt to find John and Randy, but the two love-birds were already on their way back to their nest. And then, standing there in the middle of a lonely corridor it was another name that jumped him. Phil.

_Phil._

He hadn't had much time lately to talk to him and yeah… the thought of spending the evening in his company bestowed him a strangely light and happy feeling. And so he ran around a bit more, trying to find said man. It was a random technician who told him that Phil had left a while ago.

Now he was walking into a bar right behind Paul, the back of the big man blocking his view and so he followed more or less blindly. His mood was dimmed ever since he was told that Phil had already taken off and lost in his thoughts he almost bumped into him as Paul stopped and it took him a second to realize that the man was waving a hand right in front of his face. When he snapped out of his brooding, Paul pointed over to the bar.

And there was Phil.

It caused a big grin on Stephen's face. A grin that was gone as fast as it came. There was _Phil_. Sitting alone in a bar… well, sitting in a bar at all… was so unlike him. For a confused moment Stephen only stood there, gazing at Phil like he was a mirage and something about the image was… wrong. He sat on a barstool, leaning on an elbow while his other arm practically lay on the bar. His whole posture was somewhat hunched. And… tilted. He watched him dip his head forward and his elbow skidded sideways, almost causing him to end up with his face on the bar, or maybe even completely on the floor, but he caught himself at the last second and with a slight shaking of his head he straightened a bit.

It seemed like he was drunk but in all the years they had worked together, Stephen hadn't seen him drunk. Not once. Not even tipsy. Because Phil _did not drink_.

His co-workers were already sitting on a table in a far corner of the room as Stephen made his way through the crowd and towards a dangerously swaying Phil. He got there just in time to grab the other man by the shoulders to stop him from falling off his barstool.

"You okay, fella?" he asked worried, tightening his hold on Phil.

"St'phen…?"

He could have sworn that there was relief mingling in that slurred word. And then he felt Phil sag a little and slump against him, like there was no body tension left, the other man's head falling back against a broad shoulder.

A sigh. And this time he was sure there was relief in it.

"Yer drunk, Brooks."

It was a flat statement with slight accusation in it but Phil only shook his head, or rather rolled it against his shoulder.

"Am not. Don'drink…"

Stephen huffed.

"Yeah sure, yer are totally sober, fella."

Tilting his head a bit Phil peered up to him with furrowed brows, probably trying to look pissed, but he only looked even more drunk with his unfocused and glassy eyes.

"Didn'drink… had onl' water…"

And now it was Stephen who frowned as it hit him. Phil's speech was slurred, but it wasn't a drunken slur… more an immensely tired one. And he didn't smell any alcohol. Leaning down he sniffed at him. No. No alcohol… Then he slipped one arm around Phil's chest and reached for the glass standing in front of him, taking a sip. Nothing, only water.

"Hey," he called, waving at the guy behind the bar who came over to them. "Have yer been here all the time?"

The guy nodded.

"What else but water did he have?" Stephen asked and the guy shrugged his shoulders.

"As far as I know only water," the man replied. "Why?"

Only water… Taking a thoughtful look around it was the powerful trickle of a foreboding he felt creeping up his spine, making a knot coil up in his stomach. He gazed back at the man.

"Well, seems like he got drugged," Stephen growled and tightened his hold on Phil as he felt him sag a little more.

The guy tilted his head a bit… frowned…

Then: "There was a man, big, lanky, blond hair and a green shirt… He was lurking around for a while, staring at your friend here. Haven't seen him for several minutes now."

A beer coaster was pushed over to him.

"My name and my number if you need me to give evidence," he said, nodding at it and with that he left to do his job.

Again Stephen looked around, but there was no one matching the description…

"St'phen…?" Phil mumbled and Stephen felt weak fingers on his arm. "Don'feel s' good…"

Alarmed he shifted his hold on the half unconscious man, wrapping one unresisting arm around his neck while wrapping his own around the other man's upper body. He was more dragging Phil out of the bar than anything else and he thanked god that there was a taxi waiting right in front of the bar. The ride to the next hospital took longer than it should and all the time Phil was resting against him like a pile of laundry, conscious yet not and every once in a while there was a weak groan or moan.

"St'phen…"

"I'm here, it's gonna be okay, Phil. Just hang in there," Stephen murmured as the other man moved to lie on the backseat, curling up with his head resting on his legs. "Just hang in there, fella…"

x

Four hours later he was sitting at a hospital bed, waiting for Phil to wake up. After some examinations the doctors had confirmed his suspicion that someone had slipped Phil a roofie.

Sick bastard…

The doctors had given Phil something to help him get back on his feet, but first and foremost it was a lot of sleep he needed. Wiping his hands down his face Stephen groaned quietly, feeling sick to his stomach at the mere thought what would have happened if he hadn't come to the bar. Phil could have been _raped_. Swallowing hard on the bile rising in his throat, he scooted his chair a bit closer to the bed. The ridiculously overprotective part of him made him look over to the door, as if that sick bastard could come in any second to end what he started. And beside the overprotective part stood a much smaller part of him, asking at which point he had started to care so fucking much for that grumpy man.

When he looked back to Phil, he found him answer his gaze with tired eyes. Relief flooded him and he had to restrain himself not to lean in and hug him for being okay.

"Jesus, Farrelly, you look worse than I feel," Phil rasped a bit breathlessly and took a look around. "Why am I in a hospital?"

"Yer got Mickey Finned," Stephen said quietly, not event trying to hide the worry which was nagging at him.

There was surprise on Phil's face, the statement leaving him wide awake and there was a flicker of shock in those green eyes. But only for the briefest of moments.

"So someone wanted to get himself a piece of my sweet ass, huh?" Phil chuckled wearily but it was a poor attempt to laugh it off.

Stephen didn't laugh. His face was a grave mask as his eyes roamed the man lying in the bed and Phil could only gaze back at him, swallowing hard. And Stephen couldn't recall a moment when he'd seen him that small and vulnerable. Well, no… that wasn't quite true. He'd seen him once like this. Beaten, literally. It had been the evening Brock had caught him in that lonely corridor.

"Phil… this is serious. Yer got _drugged_," Stephen added even quieter, while over and over again trying to push away the thought of _why_ someone would do that. "What if I hadn't come there and…"

"I know," Phil cut him off, hushed.

For a minute there was only a thick silence between them and the quietness in the room was only disturbed by the usual sounds of a hospital.

Then suddenly Phil looked down onto the blanket and his voice was just above a whisper as he spoke again: "I fucking _know_ what could have happened, Stephen."

His voice cracked at the last words and he coughed lightly, a faint and all too aware little smile on his lips. He didn't say thank you and he didn't need to. Stephen saw it in those green orbs as Phil looked back up to him.

And this time it was Stephen who had to gaze away as he said, trying to manage a light tone: "Yer are one unlucky fella, Brooks. Why do I always have to save yer sorry ass?"

He rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and squeezed his eyes shut for a brief moment as he fought to bring up a smile. He succeeded, even if it was only a small and crooked one but it grew a little as he met Phil's gaze again, being greeted by a shaky grin.

"Because you have a white-knight-complex, Farrelly. You know, a third time and I could get used to it."

"Huh, yer shouldn't count on it," Stephen warned him. "Why were yer alone in tha bar?"

In the green eyes was a spark at that question and something shifted in their depths, before Phil shrugged his shoulders.

"I knew I wouldn't find sleep and I thought that you guys would go party anyway and since the bar was close I guessed you would go there. And so did I. End of the story."

Raising an eyebrow Stephen looked him over.

"Who are yer? A Phil-clone? An alien? Someone brain-washed yer?"

A frown appeared on Phil's face.

"You trying to be funny, white man?"

Stephen chuckled lightly as he leaned forward, bracing his elbows on the mattress. He shot him a grin.

"The Phil I know usually ditches any invitations for after-work drinks because he just doesn't want most of his co-workers being in his orbit outside work."

Grumbling Phil slipped deeper under his blanket and fixed his eyes on the opposite wall, before muttering so quietly Stephen almost missed it: "Most of them, yeah. There are exceptions, okay? And I… I was there because of the exception, you big oaf…"

Exceptions. Or rather, exception. Phil had been there because of the exception… Phil looked back at him, a bit uncertain maybe, and for a minute their eyes stayed locked. It was now that Stephen noticed it.

… _you big oaf…_

Oh. _Oh._ He'd crossed Phil's line of defense. The other man's face was unguarded and his eyes were _open and deep_.

Odd warmth bloomed in his chest as the realization sunk into his worried mind. He was sitting at the bed of a man he'd known for years as snappish, sarcastic, grumpy and so many more uncongenial things and if someone would have asked him three years ago if he wanted to talk to Phil more than one word, he would probably have asked them if they have bats in the belfry. And now? Over the past months he'd felt drawn in by the peculiar man more and more, unconsciously seeking his company and at some point Phil had stopped biting him away. Sometimes it had even seemed like Phil appreciated his company, as in really liked him being around.

Phil wasn't the type of guy who let other people come close. He knew that. It was because of that trust issue thing. It made the fact that Phil had opened up to him even more… special.

_You can trust me._

And now... Phil _did_ trust him. He _wanted_ him around. He'd just confessed that he _liked_ Stephen.

The grin faded, becoming an honest and tender smile as he replied softly: "Yer should sleep now and get tha shit out of yer system."

A hum was the answer and another moment of silence followed, but this time it wasn't thick but weary and good in a way and Stephen watched Phil's eyes slowly slip close as exhaustion, drugs and meds took their toll. He waited a little longer before getting up from his chair to get himself a coffee because this would be a long night. It was a mumbling that stopped him, made him lean down to the other man.

"Yeah?" he whispered back.

It took a few seconds.

Then: "… _stay_…"

Smoothing a hand over the raven hair he leaned down a bit more, again whispering: "I'm not going anywhere, Phil. I'm gonna be right here when yer wake up. Promise."

With that he took hold on Phil's hand, fingers wrapping around the other man's in a firm but gentle hold. The answer was immediate as Phil's fingers closed around his tightly and with a sigh he turned a bit towards Stephen, who pulled the chair closer and sat down, never letting go.

Phil was still pale but he looked much better and he was breathing. He was _unharmed_. The mere thought of what could have happened to him sent a chill down Stephen's spine and he couldn't help the shudder it caused. God knew, he wished he could lay his hands on the bastard who did this.

"I'm gonna keep yer safe, Phil," he murmured, running a thumb over the back of the other man's hand.

His thumb stilled its soothing movement as his own words echoed in his ears. And in the quietness of the room there was a tiny sound as his breath caught at a realization of something that hadn't been supposed to happen…


	3. Footprints

After my notebook crashed I tried to recover Angel part 26 and Pinfall part 3 and I actually managed to restore Pinfall part 3 (still working on saving Angel part 26 though…)

So here it is, part 3. Happy hump day ;D

* * *

About 4 years ago

Walking along the corridor, Phil let his gaze sweep over the doors, looking for his room number. His holdall was heavy in his hand, because he was fucking tired after the flight and the unnerving ride through the city at a time when there seemed to be more cars on the streets than there should be on the whole world. And then his match against that big white lump! He knew that his night would be like so many before, sitting on a hotel bed with a comic in hands and the TV running in the background because, no matter how tired he might be, sleep would be busy with anyone else but him. He sighed, fiddling with the key card in his hand, running a finger along its edge, turning it further at the corner, running his finger along its edge, turning it further… pondering if he should try to get some sleep or if he shouldn't even give it a shot, knowing he would only be frustrated and even more tired after tossing and turning for hours.

Finally Phil found his room and while he opened the doors with another sigh, stepped in and… groaned. Tossing his holdall aside, he closed the door with a little more force than necessary and crossed his arms over his chest, glaring at an unexpected and unwanted roommate.

_What the hell…?_

"Sheamus! What the fuck, man?" he growled and cursed silently since it sounded much too tired to be a _real_ growl.

A double room! He never had double rooms! Never! And if it wasn't bad enough _that_ it _was_ a double room, no, his roommate had to be _Sheamus_! And while he kept glaring, said man continued to unpack his stuff, obviously feeling completely unaffected by being unwanted. But after a few seconds of silence, Stephen finally looked up, gave him a lopsided little smile and shrugged his shoulders.

"Wasn't my idea, fella," he said while carrying some stuff to the bath-room.

Narrowing his eyes, Phil stared after him for a second, before walking over to the holdall. Stephen was still in the bath-room when he grabbed the bag, walked over to the door and threw the unwanted item out of the room. Just when he closed the door again the unwanted roommate left the bath-room and without hesitation Phil went in, collecting the Irish man's stuff. There was a muffled curse that made him smile and with that smile neatly in place, he left the bath-room again, walking over to the door to open it.

He couldn't though. A big white hand landed on it.

"What do yer think yer are doing, Punk? And where the fuck is my bag?!"

Phil's smile became a satisfied grin.

"Take your paw away and I can show you."

A frown grew on the pale face, brows furrowed over angry eyes and a blink later all of it was wiped away, replaced by understanding. The door was being ripped open and Phil had to jump back as the door almost knocked him out.

He watched the other man disappear into the corridor and with a relieved sigh he kicked the door shut behind him. Or rather he wanted to. Before it fell close the door bounced back with so much force that it hit him before he could react. Right on his nose. Pain exploded in his face, tears sprang to his eyes and with a yelp he let go of Stephen's stuff as he reached up to his face.

"You son of a…!" he howled but the words got stuck to his throat as big hands grabbed him and hauled him out of the room.

The door was slammed shut behind him. Stumbling backwards he ended up against the opposite wall of the corridor, bowed forward while still hiding his face in his hands. He felt a warm wetness on his palm and between pained groans there were curses and hisses, muffled by his hands.

Eventually he straightened up and as he took his hands away, he found them bloody and he felt blood run down his chin.

"Fuck," he muttered and slipped out of his jacket and bunching the fabric, he carefully pressed it against his bleeding nose.

What the fuck, his plan had been to kick that Neanderthal of a man out of the room and suddenly it was _him_ standing in the middle of the corridor with a bleeding nose and the Neanderthal was still in his cave. Great!

Another groan.

No way was he going to take that lying down. Stomping over to the door he banged against it, kicked against it and… nothing happened.

"Open the bloody door!" he yelled, frankly pissed, and gave the door another kick.

After a moment the door actually jumped open but his attempt to get back into the room ended up with a step backwards again as he ran against a big hand which stopped him short. His own holdall was dropped right in front of his feet. The Irish man appeared in the doorframe, straightened to his full height and the broad arms crossed over his chest while he stared down on Phil. Seething. And slowly it sunk into Phil's pain dulled brain _how_ angry the other man was.

"Yer know, I wasn't keen on sharing a room with yer but it would only have been for one fucking night. But if yer can't stand to be in the same room with me, go and sleep under a bridge where yer belong, _Punk_," Stephen growled and Phil wanted to give him an appropriate answer.

Only that he had no idea what to say. For the first time in a long while someone left him really speechless and he didn't have the slightest idea _why_. The door was being closed.

He was staring at the door for a while, baffled. The stifled laughter didn't escape his notice and with a glare he whipped his head around to see who was laughing at him. His glare became scorching as his eyes found the source. A few of his co-workers on their way to their rooms, but the laughter was coming from…

"Fuck off, Nemeth," he snapped but through the jacket it lacked of intensity.

"Nice job, Brooks, looks like your sweetheart kicked you out?" the blond man chuckled. "I don't think I've ever seen Stephen this angry before. It's your hobby, isn't it? To piss people off?"

Wonderful. Just wonderful. Not only did his plan backfire, no, his _beloved_ co-workers witnessed the whole shit. Nemeth was actually _gloating_. Phil bent down to grab his bag and pointedly ignoring the lasting amusement about his situation, he walked past them and to the elevator. Two minutes later he stood at the front desk, talking the poor girl there into giving him another room but… the hotel was fully booked. Even is bloody nose wasn't of help. Obviously he didn't look pitifully enough.

His feet carried him back up to his former room where he sat down on the floor on the opposite side, leaning against the wall while his eyes roamed the closed door. He was tired, his body ached, his damn nose killed him and in addition his head began to pound. A weary sigh slipped past his lips. He should probably just try to live with sharing a room with one of his co-workers the next time. It was definitely better than spending the night sitting in the corridor of a hotel.

Taking the jacket away he gingerly felt his sore nose, wincing as the pain increased again. He pulled his knees up, resting his arms on them. The jacket dropped to the floor between his legs and closing his eyes he rested his head back against the not very comfortable wall. A bed would be nice now. A comfy, warm bed…

Ten minutes? Twenty? Maybe half an hour…? He had no idea how long he'd been sitting there before a shadow cast down on him. Opening his eyes he braced for dumb comments or whatever the person standing there wanted to throw at him, but instead of daft jokes he was greeted by a silent Stephen who was looking down on him with a carefully blank expression.

A scathing remark was dancing on the tip of his tongue and at every other moment he would have spat it at his counterpart… but now it was sighed away. He held the big man's gaze though waiting for whatever he wanted to say or to do. Stephen tilted his head a bit to the side, before bending down slowly, never taking his eyes from the sitting man as if he was expecting a kick or something and grabbing Phil's holdall he straightened up, turned around and walked back into the room.

The door was left open.

Phil frowned at the silent invitation, but he wouldn't question it and so he climbed to his feet, following Stephen and he found him busy at the mini-bar. His bag was sitting on the free bed. Throwing the bloodstained jacket to the floor beside the bed he made his way to the bathroom to wash the blood from his face. His nose was swollen, red and there was still trickling blood from it. Lovely, really lovely…

When he left the bathroom to go and hide under his blanket and pity himself a little, he almost ran into Stephen and yes, this was far too much Farrelly for one day, he decided.

"Put tha on yer nose," Stephen said, holding an improvised ice-pack towards him and hesitantly he reached out, taking it from the Irish man's hand with a wary look. "Yer should get some sleep, Brooks, yer look like shit."

The way the other man said it wasn't really friendly but it also wasn't unfriendly. It sounded like a ceasefire. Gingerly holding the ice-pack onto his hurting nose he let his eyes follow Stephen as he padded over to his bed, falling onto it with a low groan. A moment later he was wrapped up in his blanket with his red hair sticking out from his cocoon.

Standing there in the middle of the room, surrounded by quietness, Phil gazed at him. Gazing became scowling. He wouldn't say thank you. Why should he? Because the Neanderthal let back into the room? No, this was his room, too, after all. And the ice-pack? It was Stephen's fucking fault that his nose was a bloody pulp, right? No, he didn't owe him a thank you, not at all.

And as if Stephen had read his mind, he murmured: "Yer are welcome…"

The scowl morphed to puzzlement, the green eyes glued to the red-capped cocoon. He opened his mouth to retort something, _anything_, but whatever would have left his mouth, it got stuck in his throat. The day had been too long and he was simply too tired to dig for a fight. And he really wasn't up for spending the night sitting in a corridor.

Well… there are days one loses and there are days when other people win.

It could have been worse, if it had been Nemeth lying there for example.

The rest of the night was filled with… sleep. For once no being awake while being goddamn tired, no watching TV and reading comics because no matter how hard he tried, his eyes just wouldn't stay closed.

It was the image of a red-capped, snoring cocoon that accompanied him as sleep pulled him down…

About 3 months ago

Sitting in his living-room Phil stared at the running TV, completely bored because it was all he could do and what he'd done for the past week. Sitting around, alone, because everyone was busy. He'd sprained his right ankle, very neatly so, and now he was out for at least three weeks.

Three fucking weeks.

In a fit of loneliness he'd called Stephen the day before yesterday for a bit of talking and then he'd invited him over for today, but the Irish man told him that he had no time. Appointments and stuff. He'd really hoped Stephen would come over, even if it was only for an hour. Fuck. Fuck his ankle, fuck being alone, fuck appointments and _fuck_ being to _pathetic_.

Fuckfuckfuckfuck.

This was ridiculous. Since when did he have a problem with being alone? And why did his thumb hover over Stephen's number this very second. _When _had he grabbed his fucking cell? And _why_ was it Stephen's number?

_Wonderful,_ Phil thought self-mocking and with a muttered curse he threw it over to the far end of the couch.

For a few seconds he stared at the TV again before his eyes flicked over to the cell. And back at the TV. A moment later the pathetic part of him won and he scooted over to the cell to call him. But all he got was the call-sign. Sighing he ended the call. And called again. And again only the call-sign. Right, the man had _appointments and stuff_, so he probably couldn't answer the call even if he wanted to. Phil groaned, letting the small device drop onto the cushion.

Tilting his head back he rested it against the backrest of the couch, eyes roaming the ceiling on an aimless trail. Fucking boring. Goddamn, fucking…

The doorbell rang, making Phil's head snap into the major direction of the front door. He frowned. He didn't expect anyone…

Fishing for his crutches Phil got up, making his way to the door more or less fast. The bell rang again just when he arrived there. Attempting to snap at the visitor for… for… something… anything… _whatever_… he ripped the door open and… said nothing.

"Hey, Phil."

Tilting his head in disbelief Phil stared at Stephen.

"Uhm, yer okay, fella?" Stephen asked confused as Phil reached out, stabbing a finger into the broad chest once, twice, before pulling his hand back, staring at his finger. "Are the pain meds doing something funny with yer head or…?"

"Why are you here?" Phil asked.

Stephen _was_ here, definitely. The confusion on the other man's face gave way to an arched eyebrow.

"Because yer invited me over?" Stephen replied and stepped closer. "But if yer want me to go…?"

_What? No!_ Phil thought, hobbling backwards, beckoning to him to come in.

"No," he said quickly. "But you said you don't have time, so I'm just, you know, surprised."

The door clicked shut behind the big man who gave Phil a crooked smile before walking over to the kitchen with Phil following right behind.

"Yeah, well, I canceled my appointments. Thought yer might be happy about some company." Stephen side-glanced him and the crooked smile had become a bright one as he added: "Yer hungry? I got yer some salad and bruschetta."

Blinking once Phil gazed at the man standing in his kitchen, retrieving food from a bag. Stephen had canceled his appointments to come here. To spend some time with him. He felt a smile spread over his face wide enough to split it into half and unfamiliar warmth bubbled in his chest. When the Irish man's eyes once again swept over to him, he noticed the wide smile and chuckled lightly.

"Bought food? What if I wanted you to cook for me?" Phil mock-whined, hobbling closer to eye his soon-to-be dinner.

"Nah, fella, I'm not good at cooking. Yer wouldn't want to eat tha, really," he said laughing, but then the bright smile changed, becoming a soft one as he reached into the bag again. "Got something else for yer."

With that he produced a comic and handed it over to Phil who gazed at it. Gazed at it a little longer. Gazed up to Stephen and back to the comic. The smile was wiped from his face. It was the newest comic from his favorite series. How could Stephen know his favorite comic series? And what the fuck, this comic was supposed to come out in two days, not _now_.

And almost as Stephen read his thoughts he added: "Uhm, a while ago yer mentioned tha this is yer favorite series and a friend of mine owns a comic shop. And he owed me a favor, so I thought this might cheer yer up a little and I asked him to give me this one before the official release date…"

He trailed off, maybe a bit nervous all of a sudden, maybe a bit embarrassed even, because Phil didn't say anything, just looked at him with a mixture of disbelief, restrained astonishment, cautious suspicion and bewildered happiness. And those emotions didn't only unsettle Stephen but also Phil, who had no fucking idea how to react to… all this. To the canceled appointments, the food, the comic… to Stephen.

And suddenly there was a strange tension humming in the air between them.

Scratching the back of his head Phil dropped his gaze back to the comic and tried to laugh his inability to handle the unfamiliar attention off. From the corner of his eye he noticed uncertainty appear on the other man's face.

"Yer sure yer don't want me to go?" Stephen asked very quietly, reluctantly, as if he was thinking he'd done or said something wrong.

_This is absurd. The whole situation. Absurd_, Phil thought, because… Stephen threw him a curve here and it was so unlike himself to let it happen.

"No," he replied then, willing a light tone into his voice, and with that he hobbled over to the table in an attempt to get away from that tension between them. "Huh, no. I, uhm… really, I don't want you to…"

The problem with holding things in the same hands which were needed to use crutches is that doing both at the same time often enough turns out to be a bad idea. And in addition reflexes tend to override the brain. It was what Phil learned this very moment. The comic slipped from his fingers and before he knew what he was doing, he reached out to grab it, letting go of his crutches in the process. The second he realized what was just happening, he'd already lost his balance and in an attempt to avoid a trip to the floor he took another step forward, bringing his full weight on his sprained ankle. His foot exploded in agony and he howled in pain. His leg gave way. But he never hit the floor.

Something had stopped his fall. No, not something. Someone. Between curses, harsh breathing and blazing pain Phil faintly noticed his world becoming surprisingly horizontal as Stephen lifted him up bridal style, carrying him over to the living-room where he lowered him gently onto the couch. A tiny part of his brain wondered how a sprained ankle could _fucking hurt_ like this, while another tiny part of him noticed his sore leg being lifted and settled onto a pile of cushions.

Steps, leaving. Returning. And then… cold. Something cold on his foot. He knew it would help but _FUCK_ it fucking made his goddamn foot hurt _even more_.

The couch dipped a bit as Stephen sat down beside him, murmuring: "Come on, look at me."

Phil felt his arm being lifted away from his face, wondering when he had thrown it over it and when the other man repeated his words he realized that he had his eyes screwed shut. Groaning he opened them, his sight watering up immediately at the pounding and burning in his foot and he was greeted by worried eyes. He'd seen them quite often over the past weeks and months he noticed. Strange, wasn't it?

Pulling his sleeves over his thumbs Stephen brushed over Phil's cheeks, wiping tears away. Ridiculously enough he felt a laughter crawl up his throat at the other man's gentle touch. That, too, wasn't the first time he noticed that.

"Yer pale, fella," Stephen muttered as he scrutinized him. "Did yer try to kill yerself?"

"Yeah, a week of being alone turned me into a lemming," he groaned and with it came the laughter which was still waiting in his throat.

What left his lips was a twisted little sound, causing the worry on the other man's face to deepen.

"Will you stop looking at me like that, Farrelly," Phil muttered as he sat up, but a broad hand on his shoulder stopped him, gently pushing him back down.

"Then stop worrying me, Brooks," came the hushed reply. Stephen turned around and lifted the ice pack, taking a look at the ankle and with a sigh he added: "Stay down, yer foot needs a break from yer clumsiness."

Stephen had his back still towards him when Phil felt a question rise.

"Why?"

He saw the other man straighten up ever so slightly and the ice pack was put back onto his ankle very cautiously.

"Why what?"

Stephen turned back around to him slowly, cocking his head to the side.

"Why? Why all this, Stephen?"

What he meant was all that Stephen had done over the past months and the other man knew it. Brushing a hand over his forehead the big man sighed, shrugging his shoulders then.

"Remember when yer found out about John and Randy and I came to yer locker?" he asked, holding Phil's gaze, the blue eyes so open that it was Phil who had a hard time not to look away.

The straightforwardness this man displayed was fascinating and at times even a bit scaring…

"Sure, you big white oaf," Phil muttered then.

He'd used that _nickname_ for the first time back then and Phil was the only person who could call him that without ending up as an unattractive blotch on the wall. Mild amusement tugged at Stephen's lips like every time Phil used this… special term of endearment.

"Yer said tha people don't bother to find out tha yer are a kind person."

A nod from Phil as he replied: "My words, yeah."

"Well… I bothered," Stephen said in a voice so calm that Phil forgot the pain in his foot for a moment. "Yer stopped biting, Phil. Why?"

Phil blinked once as the other man voiced what he'd tried so hard not to think about for a while now, because it wasn't easy to let someone behind his walls and it was even harder to admit that… he probably wanted that someone there. Because the last time he let someone be there with him, he ended up hurt in the end.

But Stephen… ever since that night at his locker room he had… he had been there. Oh, he'd tried to keep the Irish man at a safe distance but all the time _he had been there_. For two and a half years without really expecting anything in return.

_Why not?_ he thought while staring into waiting blue eyes.

"Because…" he began a little absentmindedly, searching for the right words. "… because… you are worth the effort."

There, the truth was out and he couldn't take it back. Stephen had proofed himself being worth a risk but Phil just couldn't understand _why_ Stephen was so interested in him. He could have kept the why?-game up and simply asked him, but he had embarrassed himself enough for one day for his taste.

And damn this big white man for being so perceptive, because he murmured: "Yer got me curious that night and over the time I… Yer are worth the trouble it takes to get to know yer, Phil. Yer really are, no matter how sharp yer tongue can be at times."

And once again Stephen left him speechless and with an odd smile on his face he got up, giving Phil's belly a kind pat while asking if he was hungry.

Stephen kept him company until late into the night and it was the perfect company. And although he had answered Phil's unvoiced question, the _why_ was still there, nagging at Phil…


	4. Steps - 2

Hi guys! Long time no see and I'm sorry for being away so long…

Now, here's part 4 and I hope you'll enjoy it.

For all those who are waiting for Angel part 26: I tried to recover it and yesterday I gave up on it. That means I'll have to re-write the whole chapter. I'm quite a bit depressed right now about the whole thing… However, please be patient!

* * *

Present

Phil was pacing up and down, up and down. And up and down. Ever since he'd left Randy alone in the guestroom. The whole thing had left Phil shocked in a way, since those two had been the indestructible twosome in his eyes. And now? He couldn't remember a moment he'd seen Randy this broken. Or broken at all. Randy wasn't the type of guy who showed something like this in front of people he didn't call his partner or best friend. A small part of him tried to imagine how John might feel, how he might look like. Probably as broke, if not even more because John was so… he loved Randy so very much.

He wondered what had happened, really. That John had kicked Randy out was obvious, that it hadn't been a simple fight, too. This wasn't just a _get out, I need a few days alone_ kind of being kicked out. It was the _get out, I don't want to see you ever again_ kind. This all… it made Phil feel bad, made him worry because somehow, somewhere along the line, Randy and John had become his friends.

Friends. Friend…

Stephen.

Yeah, Stephen… He wondered if Stephen was okay. There hadn't been time to talk when he was at John's place to pick Randy up, but if possible Stephen had been even paler than usually, tense, tired… Walking over to the coffee table he took his cell, walked over to the window and sat onto the broad windowsill he used to sit on when he was reading. No message from him, no missed call. Hadn't he told him to call? He could at least have sent a message. Well, maybe he was still sitting with John.

Leaning back against the wall he gazed out of the window into the slowly darkening sky. Funny how the things changed. For years he had been the lone wolf and suddenly there were people he cared about. Huh, he wouldn't admit that to anyone, but he cared very much when it came to Stephen. That big white oaf. Though being pushed away Stephen had showed an impressive persistence in trying to be friends with him and yes, he had showed himself being trustworthy. And although he had never really thanked Stephen for all he'd done, Phil guessed that the other man knew how grateful he was.

With a sigh he gazed on this cell. Still no message.

"Come on, Stephen," he muttered.

But Stephen had promised to call, hadn't he? He would and so Phil told himself to be patient.

In the beginning, back then when their relationship began to change, Phil had tried hard to convince himself that the Irish man wasn't better than all the others. He didn't want to like him. Liking someone was always an Achilles heel. But his best efforts not to like Stephen failed and he noticed that the other man was the exact opposite of what he wanted him to be. And suddenly he found himself seeking his company. And not only that, he cared about him, much more than it was… safe. It had been a while since the last time he'd called someone his best friend. But maybe Stephen was exactly that. His best friend.

Again his eyes flicked down to his cell. Still nothing.

Phil's fingers itched to call him. Really, Stephen hadn't looked good. The man could be very overprotective at times and tended to forget about himself while being worried about others. He'd come to know that part of Stephen, too. A few times already.

And maybe Stephen also needed someone who worried about him…?

"Yeah, sure, and that would be you, Brooks, right?" he puffed into the quietness, thinking that the room was much too empty… somehow.

His thumb moved on its own accord, typing the words which where accompanying him the whole time.

_- You promised to call me. I'm worried here, okay? -  
_

Send.

And then Phil groaned quietly, because, fuck, if this didn't sound pathetic. He just wasn't good at this whole being-friends-showing-feelings-shit…

And while he thought that, Stephen's cell danced on the bedside table of the guestroom, calling for its owner's attention just when he walked in.

Taking the small device, Stephen more or less fell onto the bed while his mind was still with John and so it took a second or two until the message his eyes send to his brain reached it and between all the worry and the bad feelings this whole shit was causing, happy warmth stuck its head out. With a weary smile he hit the call button.

"Was about time, you big lug," Phil muttered as he answered the call, relieved to hear the other man, yet it worried him even more, because Stephen sounded exhausted.

"Hey, Phil," Stephen sighed down the line as he stretched out on the bed. "Sorry, didn't want to leave John on his own. He's not coping good with the situation. I'm still hoping he'll give Randy another chance… How's Randy doing?"

A thoughtful little sound from Phil's side.

"I can't remember a moment I have seen him so… so broken," Phil said, voicing his own thoughts. "To say he's devastated would be an understatement… Huh, he's probably going to kill me when he's back on his feet because I saw him like this."

The chuckle he received from Stephen for his comment sounded a bit weak and a ridiculous urge to comfort the other man tugged at Phil's heart.

"This whole thing isn't funny," Stephen chided him despite his own reaction. "But I promise, I'm not gonna let him kill yer, Punky."

"Whoa, don't call me that, you pallid Neanderthal," Phil snapped half-heartedly at this brand new pet name, yet there was a small part of him that smiled at it.

Stephen huffed and that huff turned into quiet laughter because this kind of bantering gave him a sense of normality.

"I'm not pallid. My hair's red," he retorted then, waiting for the next quip.

It came without delay.

"No, it's not. It's orange and it makes you look like a washed-out tomato sauce blot on a pure white tablecloth."

"Yer are such a _lovely_ person, Brooks…"

"That's why you love me, Farrelly."

Phil's words wrapped around Stephen's poor heart like a cold grip and for a moment he could do nothing but trying to find his voice again and ignore how much truth lay in those words. Rubbing a hand over his forehead Stephen closed his eyes and sighed once more.

"Stephen?" Phil asked quietly at the lack of response.

"Sorry, I'm just… I don't know…" the other man replied then as quietly.

The urge to comfort Stephen was still there and the tugging at his heart became stronger.

"But _I_ know, Stephen. Look, I'm also worried about John and Randy but you…" Phil began, fishing for the right words. For safe words. "You know, I have eyes and ears and when I picked Randy up you didn't look good and right know you don't sound good. Just make sure you're getting out of this unharmed, okay?"

There was no answer because Stephen didn't trust his voice. He swallowed hard and struggled to find a way out of this unsafe territory.

"Wow, CM Punk worries about other people," he teased, hoping to get back to the safe bantering.

"Right now I'm not CM Punk, I'm Phil Brooks and I don't worry about other people, I worry about my friend," Phil muttered. "But if you tell anyone you should hope that Randy kills me before I can lay my fingers on your pale throat."

"Oh yeah, now tha really scares me, small man," Stephen snorted.

For a moment there was silence. Blinking slowly Phil still stared out of the window, thinking that if he hadn't promised Stephen to keep an eye on Randy, he would have hopped into his car to drive right to John's place and make sure the big white oaf wouldn't forget himself over the whole John-and-Randy-thing. Sitting up, Stephen rubbed his neck. Suddenly he felt incredibly tired…

"Uhm, I'm not on the show tomorrow," he murmured then. "Could yer have an eye on them? They're scheduled for a match against each other and I guess it could be… difficult."

Frowning Phil replied: "Sure. But I hoped you'd come in anyway…"

"I can't. There's something I need to deal with… yer know, Randy said something tha made me think," the Irish man explained quietly. "I need to talk to Sam."

"Sam? As in, Randy's ex-wife Sam?" Phil asked surprised, wondering what Sam had to do with all this.

He didn't ask further though. Stephen had told him he couldn't spill the facts what had happened and so he would be patient. Or maybe ask Randy in a… better… moment.

"Yeah, Randy's ex. With a little bit of luck I am right with my assumption and John will rethink the facts."

Silence.

Then: "Well, okay, I'm gonna keep my fingers crossed. And now, take a rest, you sound like you need it."

Stephen hummed acknowledging.

"Stephen?"

"Yeah?"

"Call me, okay? Or send a message."

"Yes, mom," Stephen laughed wearily while fishing for the comforter on the foot end of the bed.

Lying back down he pulled it up to his chest and sighed as he got comfortably.

There was a sigh in response from the other end of the line and then Phil added, very quietly and so softly that it created a small ache in Stephen's chest: "Stephen? I'm serious, okay? I'm worried about you."

Burying his fingers in the thick fabric of the comforter Stephen willed his poor little heart to stop stumbling, because he knew those words resulted out of friendship, not out of… more. There was no reason to stumble. There was no reason to pound. There was only a reason for being happy to have found such a good friend like Phil.

"Thanks, Phil. For everything," he said then, his voice just above a whisper.

"Yeah. Take care, ok? And now, sleep," Phil murmured.

The last thing Stephen heard was a muttered _big white oaf_, before the line fell dead. Phil rested his head back against the wall while his hand sank down onto his legs, clutching his cell. For another long moment he watched the nightly scenery out there before he closed his eyes, rolling his head against the wall in helpless disbelief.

Great. All those years it had only been himself he had to worry about and now? It had been easy, so easy. It wasn't anymore. He had friends. And a best friend. And suddenly life had become complicated and he wasn't used to it anymore. The alternative? He could push them out of his orbit again, could at least try to and with a little bit of luck he pushed hard enough to make them stay away. Make _him_ stay away. He would be on his own again.

But… that thought alone made him feel like something was missing…

"Wonderful. You got yourself a leprechaun, Brooks," he snorted, running his thumb over the small device in his hand, while a thought crossed his mind.

It was something he'd been thinking very often ever since Stephen had crawled into his life... It could be worse, couldn't it?

In the meantime Stephen stared at the ceiling, absentmindedly plucking at the comforter. A queasy feeling had taken residence in his guts, partly because of John and Randy, partly because of what Sam would tell him and partly because…

Because of Phil.

He'd admitted to John that he loved Phil. His secret wasn't a secret anymore and it made the facts frightening real. And the more it became real, the more he wished he could stop it. Stop being in love with a man. With Phil. It had never supposed to be like this. Fuck, all he'd wanted was to be Phil's friend. Just friends. Nothing more, nothing less.

Was it possible to just stop being in love? Maybe. But how long would it take and how painful would it be? That it would hurt wasn't a question. No matter what he decided to do. And if not, if his poor little heart wouldn't let go of this weird man… should he tell him? Phil wasn't homophobic but knowing that a man was in love with him was different to knowing that two co-workers had a thing for one another. Things one had no problem with could suddenly be scaring if those things concerned oneself…

Turning over, Stephen put his cell onto the bedside table and pulled the comforter up to his chin. He didn't want to be in love. Not like this. And he didn't want to lose Phil's friendship. A smile tugged at his lips. All those years before he'd wanted to dunk Phil's face into the next wall on regular basis. His manner could be annoying at times. Well, okay, most of the time if you didn't know him.

But that night at Phil's locker… it had been so very different. _He_ had been so very different. A confusing experience, almost like finding an ugly item on a flea market you pick up just because it's so fascinating unattractive, and after blowing the dust off and wiping the patina away you realize it's… it's beautiful.

_I've always been a kind person. Most people just don't bother to find out about it._

_You know why people don't bother to find out who yer are, Punk? Because yer keep biting them away. Maybe yer should let someone in every once in a while._

_Maybe. But most people aren't worth the effort_.

Those few sentences had been like peeking through a keyhole and stirred his curiousness, his interest in what was hidden behind that door.

After that night he'd tried to inch over the threshold of that door by being nice to a man most of their co-workers avoided if possible and he'd lost count of how many bites it earned him. Until Phil suddenly stopped biting.

The first time Stephen noticed it had been nine months ago, back then when he found him in that bar, drugged by some pervert. It was like the other man had opened the door finally, letting him step in. Good god, he still felt the urge to throw up at the mere thought of what could have happened to Phil… The same night he'd noticed the first signs that there was… more than just friendship for Phil.

The second time had been when he visited a lonely Phil with a sprained ankle at home. After Phil's call and the invitation he declined because of some appointments he'd felt bad for doing so and cancelled all his appointments, just to spend the evening with the other man. That and the comic and the food he'd brought along seemed to leave Phil very much… confused. A cute sight he had to admit. That day Phil admitted that he had stopped biting him away because he was worth the effort. A weird feeling to hear it and Phil had no idea that it strung a cord deep in Stephen's chest, to know that he was the big exception for Phil. That night Phil had closed the door behind Stephen, welcoming him in his own little world which was denied for other people.

Another moment along that stony way to a friendship invaded his mind. The night Lesnar beat Phil up. If he hadn't overheard a conversation between two of their co-workers, joking about what Lesnar might want to do to _Punk_, it would have ended much worse for Phil. He remembered a strange fear he'd felt while he was running down the corridors to catch up with Lesnar. And he remembered how his heart stopped beating for a moment when he saw Phil, hanging like a ragdoll in Lesnar's grip, the blood on his face. And he also remembered the rage taking over. He broke Lesnar's nose and it hadn't been close to being enough for what he'd done to Phil.

"I'm gonna keep yer safe," Stephen whispered, repeating the words he'd spoken while sitting at Phil's bed, watching over him.

He _would_ keep him safe, no matter how their relationship turned out.

It was naïve to think that there was a chance for more anyway. That John and Randy had become a couple resulted of special circumstances. Those two had always shared a unique friendship. Somehow there had always been more between them.

It wasn't like this between him and Phil. It was different from just being a simple friendship, yeah, but there was no _spark_.

"Stop hoping, idiot," he muttered to himself, turning over while pulling the comforter over his head to hide in a pillow.

The night fell over the room and with it came an uneasy quietness which left Stephen far from sleep, left him tossing and turning. And it gave him too goddamn much time to _think_ and he did, until he couldn't stand it anymore.

While making his way over to John's room he hoped that he was welcome and as he crawled under John's blanket there was only a tiny sigh of relief from the other man, telling him that he wasn't the only one who couldn't sleep, couldn't stop thinking. And hurting…

About 1 years and 3 months ago

Yawning heartily Stephen strode into the lounge of the hotel, followed by John and Randy and some of the other guys. It was ungodly late, or rather early because they had stayed out after the show longer than planned. While the others said their good-nights, he walked over to the front desk to get the key he'd left there, wishing he would already be lying in his bed. Just as he turned around his eyes caught a lonely figure sitting in the bar of the hotel and even through the glass door and the dimmed lights in the room he recognized the person.

His feet moved before his brain caught up with them and only a moment later he sat onto the barstool beside said person, half yawning, half frowning. The only reaction to his presence was a puffed little laughter.

"Let me guess," Stephen said, rubbing his eyes. "Double-room?"

A huff.

"Yeah, with Nemeth," Phil spat.

Stephen couldn't help but laugh.

"Someone must hate yer, Brooks."

This time it was Phil who laughed.

"Someone? Rather everyone…"

"And the hotel is fully booked," Stephen stated.

"Yup, fully booked. And no one wanted to change rooms with me."

A moment of silence in which Stephen yawned for the umpteenth time within the last hour and Phil stared at his glass. He looked tired, Stephen noticed as his gaze roamed the other man's face. Weary. Like so often…

"Well, I can understand tha," Stephen muttered and it earned him a side-glance that was something between surprised and… hurt? And because he hadn't meant it the way Phil understood it, he quickly added: "_I_ wouldn't want to share a room with Nemeth."

"I dare say the problem is that the others don't want to share a room with _me_," Phil half smiled and it was a grim one that made the other man wonder if Phil started to regret that he'd made everyone dislike him. "However, I think I'll stay here for another half an hour until the bar closes and then I'll move over to those invitingly comfy armchairs in the lounge and spend the night there with a comic and the company of the lady at the front desk and that security guard."

Stephen blinked slowly at him, peered down at his watch and frowned. Six hours until the hotel would serve breakfast. That meant Phil would have to sit in the lounge for at least that time. Alone on an armchair with a comic and dog-tired.

Closing his eyes briefly he pinched the bridge of his nose and said: "I have a single room."

"Well, aren't you the lucky one?" Phil mumbled and pursed his lips, while keeping his eyes on his glass. "Unless you want to swap rooms with me I don't give a flying fuck.

"Phil…"

For the first time since Stephen had joined him, Phil really looked at him and yes, he seemed to be dog-tired, exhausted to the bones. And although he tried to act all punk-like with a guarded expression and a reserved and snappy behavior, like always when he wanted people to fuck off, Stephen didn't buy it. There was something lying in those green eyes… And maybe Phil noticed that Stephen saw more than he wanted him to see, because he gazed back down on his glass, like it was a safe place.

"I don't want to hold you off your much needed beauty sleep, Farrelly."

"Phil…"

"I know my name, thank you."

With a sigh Stephen reached out, taking the glass from the other man's hand while his free hand settled on Phil's arm, who pulled it away as if the touch burned him.

The green eyes snapped back to Stephen's as he hissed: "What is your problem, Farrelly?!"

Stephen pulled his hands back and held them up in an attempt to pacify Phil.

"Calm down, okay? I just wanted to offer yer to stay at my room. It's a big bed and I don't mind having a bed neighbor or yer can have the armchair, whatever yer want. It's better than staying in the lounge the whole night."

"Sharing a bed with you? Yeah, sure, Farrelly…"

Shaking his head wearily, Stephen slipped from the barstool and muttered: "Wouldn't be the first time as far as I remember. My room number is 307. Do what yer want. I'm not gonna beg yer to stay at my room, Brooks."

With that he left Phil sitting alone in the bar. He was too tired for this game and all he wanted was to grab some sleep, because fuck, he wasn't sure if he would make the way up to his room without falling asleep on his way…

Well, now he was lying in his bed, very much awake. He was so damn awake that he could have read a book without even switching the light on. Not that he wasn't tired, he still was. But… his mind just wouldn't stop nagging at him.

He wondered if Phil was really sitting in the lounge. But where else should he be? Most likely not in the same room like Nemeth… He wasn't able to figure this man out, really. Snarky, nice, biting, tame… The trust-issue thing was a serious thing, obviously, but after chasing Lesnar away he'd thought that Phil would see that he could trust him. Phil had even spent the night at his room back then. How could a person be so difficult?

Groaning he grabbed the ends of his pillow, wrapping it around his head and turning onto his side, he screwed his eyes shut.

"Fuck, get out of my head, Brooks…"

Two hours. He'd spent two fucking hours with tossing and turning and thinking and feeling fucking guilty for no reason! It wasn't his fault that this man was so stubborn and… and… so _punkish._ If he wanted to spend the night in the lounge, so be it. Phil was old enough, wasn't he? Obstinate donkey…

Only that Stephen couldn't stand thought that he did. It made him feel bad and guilty to know that the other man sat down there, alone and tired.

Who was the donkey here…?

Muttering curses he sat up and hurled the pillow into the darkness of the room. He sat in that darkness for a minute or two, before something made him look over to the door. Had there been a sound outside? Or was it just a hallucination out of sleep deprivation? Probably. But he was out of the bed and at the door only a blink later since there was a chance that…

Opening the door he found Phil at the threshold, looking like he was about to leave again. The other man shot him a surprised look.

"How…?" Phil stammered.

Uncertainty was still written all over his face, telling Stephen that Phil must have been standing here for a while already, not sure what to do. It almost made him smile. Almost.

"I've heard yer debate with yerself in that weird mind of yers," Stephen replied, leaning against the doorframe for support.

Looking Phil over he noticed that he was probably only standing still upright out of sheer will and he looked somewhat small, apologizing in a way and his fingers itched to grab him and pull him into the room, but after Phil's reaction in the bar he kept his hands to himself. And then Phil began to gnaw at his bottom lip and Stephen had to gaze away for a moment as one single word crossed his mind. A word that surprised himself.

Cute.

Clearing his throat he added then: "Listen, yer come in and grab some sleep or read or even watch TV if yer want or yer can stay on the corridor or in the lounge. It's yer decision."

Not waiting for an answer he turned away, leaving the door open and he got back into the bed with his back to the door. Waiting. Hoping Phil would come in so he could finally find some sleep without having to think about Phil in the lounge all the time. He heard a shuffling at the door. Phil was still fighting with himself.

This all was just ridiculous.

Again a shuffling sound. And then the door was being closed, cutting the light from outside off and the darkness returned. For a moment there was quietness and Stephen was sure that Phil had closed the door from outside. But then there were quiet steps, coming towards him, causing a smile to spread on his face. The soft thud of a bag as it dropped to the floor and a sigh as Phil sat down on the armchair.

Then… nothing.

"Phil?"

No reaction.

"Don't be silly. Yer are tired and yer need to sleep. Get into the goddamn bed."

A huff. This man was annoyingly stubborn.

"I'm fine on the armchair."

Stephen huffed back.

"Sure. Because the fucking armchair is so incredibly comfortable to sleep on," he half-snapped back, more because he still couldn't sleep because he didn't want Phil to stay on that armchair. "Don't be such a pain in the ass and get into the fucking bed. I want to sleep."

Phil chuckled lowly.

"Oh, are you telling me you can only sleep when I'm lying beside you?"

Without knowing it he'd hit the bull's eye and in the darkness Stephen swallowed quietly, trying to fend a strange feeling off.

"Yeah," Stephen replied after long seconds.

And suddenly the whole room was filled with an utter silence, thick and heavy, almost as if this tiny word had sealed that silence. For a moment Stephen was sure Phil would leave any second because he had said too much. A minute? Two maybe. Then he heard a quiet rustling and steps, but those steps were coming… closer? The mattress dipped under Phil's weight as he crawled under the blanket, bounced as the other man got comfortable.

The silence stayed. It wasn't a bad one, more like a cease-fire or a careful approach. There was warmth at his back and he knew that if he reached back now, that Phil would be lying only a few inches away from him. He could feel his presence. It was calming…

The last thing Stephen was aware of before sleep finally pulled him down into its peaceful nothing was a whisper, so quiet that, as he woke up the next day, he wasn't sure if he'd really heard it.

… _thanks…_


End file.
